


Sonancy

by hikaie



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Braces, Drunken Kissing, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Lingerie, Slice of Life, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaie/pseuds/hikaie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have a normal life, where there is no blade or blood or madness. Just for a few moments, in between it all, Soul finds time to get to know her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sonancy

**Author's Note:**

> Instantaneous,  
> What'cha got to lose?  
> Simultaneous,  
> Just me and you.  
> [*](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vMGE1OJtbpQ)

            It’s not the first time he’s touched himself. However, it’s the first time he’s done it in an apartment so tiny and with walls so thin he can hear his meister roll over in her bed next door. In his parent’s home, the open space of empty rooms and too-large hallways led to noisiness that was first tentative but over time became habit. Even at his maximum level of effort, it takes a pillow and a lot of hope to keep his noises contained to his room.

            He does it in the shower, sometimes, because he’s still fifteen and living alone with a pubescent girl who, although his words constantly spoke otherwise, had boobs to provoke a man to insanity, and an ass to worse. It’s not that he’s particularly attracted to her. Soul’s dick just has a mind of its own, and that mind gets very perky and alert around a certain short-skirt wearing technician. Once, he made the mistake of asking her if she could wear a longer skirt, and she slammed a book down on his skull. He was too lightheaded to hear much besides “misogynistic” and “peeping tom.” He didn’t ask after that.

 

            For his sixteenth birthday, he gets a cake, ice cream, and a very pained request for him to go to the store and buy tampons. It’s not until he is actually _at_ the store that he realizes in the almost-year of having lived with Maka, he has no idea what kind of tampons she uses. He’s always skimmed over the box in the cabinet when going for a razor or a new roll of toilet paper. With dismay, he eyes the long shelf of various products, sub-labels like SUPER and ABSORBENT-PLUS! popping out at him. Does she have a heavy flow? She’s super tiny so probably not right? Plus she’s really fit. Maybe he can just get the regulars. The store brand maybe?

            His phone rings. Maka relays to him over the line that he’s taking too long. He spits back that there are too many damn choices, how do girls pick? She laughs a long time at that. When they hang up, he grabs a box of Playtex Sport regular and debates the pros and cons of a king size snickers while he’s in line.

            He spends her money on it.

 

            Maka wrinkles her nose. “Pink is really dumb. I want green. Green and red.” Her eyes flash and she looks at Soul. “And if you ever tell me I look like Christmas I’ll Maka-shop you.” Soul swears on his life.

            He sits in the waiting room of the orthodontist for a while. It’s quiet with only the sounds of newspapers and magazines flipping and CNN playing quietly on the television. Maka comes out later, woozy and glaring. Her cheeks are slack and numb, and she rests heavily on the back of the motorcycle when they’re all ready to go. She gives Soul a monstrous snarl, her braces glistening with too much accumulated drool. Before he tilts up, she spits on the ground and then smooshes her face against his back. Soul chuckles as he turns the handle.

 

            Blair takes her shopping for her seventeenth birthday. Soul sits on the couch in the living room, swigging from some beers he swiped from Black*Star’s place. He’s mostly watching a movie, but sometimes he pauses it to look at pictures Maka’s sending him, of different stores and outfits Blair tries to get her to buy. Sometimes she sends him shots of Blair in some lacey barely-there outfit. Thank god he outgrew nose bleeds. Then she sends him an exasperated text.

            _S.O.S. Victoria’s Secret? I didn’t sign up for this._

He spits out his beer a bit he’s laughing so hard. He doesn’t hear back from her after that, not until the girls return a few hours later, laden down with shopping bags. There are three Budweiser bottles on the coffee table and a sloppy homemade cake on the kitchen table. Soul doesn’t see the small bright pink bag amongst the others.

 

            He takes her to prom, because that’s what most teams do. She’s got a black dress on; she’s always liked black, and it gives Soul faint memories of the Black Room and strong resonance and private piano recitals, just for her. They slow dance and she complains about her heels.

            She kisses him when they get home, and he thinks she’s drunk. She tastes like champagne, the good stuff, and she smells like Blair’s perfume. He loves it. Maka licks into his mouth and makes this pleased noise and he pushes her away. She looks hurt, mildly so, but then she toddles on her heels and falls on her ass. She starts to cry and laugh and Soul thinks he’s never seen a funnier sight than a drunken Maka Albarn. He carries her to bed.

 

            It wasn’t a drunken mistake. She corners him in the library, where he’s using his Death Scythe status to hide away in the forbidden section so he can skip class for a bit. He forgets coming in here is the one rule she will break. Maka does this nervous little back and forth on her feet, then screws up her face and begins to rant that she likes him and if he doesn’t like it then oh well. She’ll accept it but he has to know. Then she sits down next to him, and he turns to face her, makes to open his mouth and tell her he was just waiting to hear it. She slides against him. A book in his lap keeps his hard on from pressing against her stomach as she lies on top of him and kisses him silly.

 

            There’s something weird about seeing his Meister’s panties, a floral lace hemmed number that curves over her backend. He can feel the ruffled lace edges on his palms as he gropes her ass, and she makes this appreciative noise. They’re grinding together in single-stall bathroom, the door locked and the sink dripping loudly. He wants his hands to be _under_ her panties, wants them to be between her thighs and on her hips and oh, under her shirt would be nice too. He’s incredibly hard against her thigh and she pulls him out of his pants when he makes this desperate sob. She’s inexperienced, holding him with both of her tiny hands and biting her lip while she concentrates on touching him how she feels he might like. He _likes_. Soul has trained himself into a quieter guy over the past few years, but with another pair of hands touching him it’s an entirely different story. He pulls up her shirt and comes on her pale white stomach while she blinks, face red and lips puffy. He’s never been so embarrassed.

 

            Maka settles over his hips and says “Blair made me buy it.” He doesn’t know whether he wants to kill the witch or thank her for the rest of his days. Soul grips at the flimsy lace of the nighty and runs his hands over it, up her thighs and rests them right around her hips, big on her slim waist. She’s so tiny, but he feels the muscles tensed under her skin, knows from experience she’s stronger than she looks.

            He tells her he’s very hard. She says she knows. His lip drops into a pout; wouldn’t you like to help me out, he says. That’s up to speculation, quips Maka. He hates her. (He loves her.)

            When she grabs his cock and lines his tip up at her entrance, she’s got her lip sucked into her mouth and the nightie is pushed up below her armpits, bright hickeys and bite marks blooming on her breasts. He’s going to come in five seconds. Hopefully six, probably four. She sinks down around him all slow and lets out a shaky gasp and he tenses up, afraid to make a sound for how _damn good_ she feels. Her fingers rest on his abs, the scant few he has, her fingers burning on his clammy skin. She digs her nails in, catching his scar, and he groans low, gripping her hips and pulling her down all the way. Maka cries out a bit.

            She moves herself on him, using her hands and rolling her hips, wincing and whining. He wants to comfort her, but he’s also trying his hardest not to nut it. Sometimes, she exhales in a high pitched whine and he rocks up against her, for once too invested to make a sound. She rocks her hips a little quicker, and he’s surprised he hasn’t come. God, she’s got great tits. He hates himself for ever denying it. He leans up on his elbows and kisses them again, licking over the red bite marks from earlier and she _moans his name_.

            Soul can’t help from gripping Maka’s hips and holding her down on his dick, because he _needs_ to be inside her. He make shallow upward thrusts, breathing open-mouthed against her chest. She threads her fingers through his hair and tugs whenever he hits just right, and just after a few blissful thrusts he can’t hold it in any longer. He bites hard right above her left breast, moaning long and low, but loud. The copper tang of blood is on his tongue even as she grinds insistently on his too-sensitive dick and moans needily.

            He dips his fingers between her legs, tries to ignore the burning in his eyes from how good ( _toomuchtoomuchtoomuch_ )she feels around his dick. Maka’s back arches forward and she buries her face in his hair, her voice hitching in a sobbing wail as she calls his name while his fingers bring her over the edge.

            Maka sleeps in his bed and he brushes her sweaty hair over her shoulder while she dozes. Her breath tickles his collarbone, but she’s got all the blankets, so he suffers through it. Soul smiles against the top of her hair, then whispers “I love you.”


End file.
